Whoever you are
by VioletVK
Summary: Sherlock's internal dialogue & revelations about one remarkable John Watson, unfolding w/the series eps (thus projected to be 6 parts) & inspired by Walt Whitman's "Whoever you are, holding me now in hand" from Leaves of Grass. Deep thanks to Ariane Devere for her series transcripts at livejournal. Rated for eventual shipper stuff. I neither own nor profit!
1. Chapter 1: Whoever you are

**Whoever you are...**

I flop onto the sofa, grimace at the slight discomfort of a stomach full of Chinese food, and begin to replay the night's events in my head. I tell myself it's a standard scan, scrubbing items for deletion, but I feel an odd reluctance to bin any of it. Why is that? It's... unusual. I draw my knees up, groan at the heaviness in my stomach, and find myself grinning idiotically at the memory of our fortune cookie bickering. Yes, right, I do guess, but they are educated guesses, and only when I haven't enough to go on with the deductions.

And I have more than enough to go on with the source of this reluctance.

I shift down until I can brace my feet against the sofa arm, and rest my chin on my fingertips. Might as well settle in. I initially start at the first encounter, at Bart's, but I was more focused on the riding crop experiment then. John only became a curiosity... when? All the pieces of the assessment were there from the lab and the short viewing of the flat, enough to precipitate a quick deduction of his motivations and lure him out to the scene at Lauriston Gardens. Handy, having a doctor's assistance, especially one who accepts, even revels in, the joy of the game. But really, if I'm being honest, the cab did change things. The compliments were... out of the ordinary. Yes, fine. A welcome surprise. Well, surprises generally are fun, but generally aren't produced by ordinary people. And wasn't John full of them this evening? The cab, the rather valiant reaction to Mycroft, topped off with the big reveal at Roland-Kerr. Rather handy to have both a doctor and a crack shot rolled into one little, loyal flatmate. Flatmate-to-be.

Who are you, John Watson? A principled man, yet willing within hours to kill someone for me. A damaged man, a man with a psychosomatic condition and a therapist, a man turned out of a career he clearly enjoyed, likely to have trust issues-would it be worth the favor to ask Mycroft for the records? No. But he's certainly already done the background, I might goad him into spilling some of it. Worth filing that thought to be examined more thoroughly. But to more important matters than my overweight, overbearing sibling. John Watson, possibly an extraordinary man secreted behind an ordinary manner. Well, extraordinary does not apply his brain, certainly, though he did... help me in the right direction with the hotel comment. Inadvertently, of course, with an entirely wrong theory, so clear to anyone who observes properly that she couldn't have checked in and yet gone out again like _that_, but a nice prompt.

Was it a nice prompt? Why nice? Why doesn't the slow stumbling, the missed logic, put me off as it usually does? Is it the flattery? Flattering. Flattered. That... exchange... at Angelo's.

Why did he ask? Did it display interest? Do I want it to have? It was startling, it will be curious enough to see how this flatmate bit works out without additional complication. Emotions. Encumbrance. Mind clutter. Confusion. I think my response was adequate. Did he mean his pronouncement? Is it, really, all fine? In the end, will all of this, will any of this, be fine for him?

Who is John Watson, a moral man who would still follow me?

Ah.

Perhaps I've been asking the wrong question. Perhaps the better question, the more worrying question, is who do you think I am, John Watson? Who do you expect me to be?


	2. Chapter 2: Holding me now in hand

I say friend. _I_ say friend.

You say colleague.

I know you believe in me, in what I do. You alone do not hate me for what I do. You follow me quite willingly, enjoy it even. Seem to be satisfied with our arrangements, even though you don't always answer when I ask you to complete small tasks. And yet, I don't yet qualify as friend. You were very clear on that in Seb's office. (To delete the unpleasant encounters with Seb, or not? Normally yes, but now they are part of my Watson files. So-no, then.) And again when I mentioned we might like each other, although it was less clear if that was a reaction to the liking one another or the context of the date. Which is confusing after Angelo's. More confusing that I care at all. Why is that?

You're incredibly loyal, passably intelligent, entirely useful to have around for domestic purposes and handy during cases. I think, perhaps... I adore you. There it is. But you. You would kill for me, have done so, but I'm not sure if you even like me. Clearly not enough to count me as a friend.

Is it the leaving-you-behind bit? It's happened a fair amount of late, but you know The Work consumes me, must be allowed to. This won't work if I'm having to be careful of your _feelings_.

Is it the-yes-somewhat extensive explanations of the facts behind deductions? Surely, I hope not, how else will you ever learn? (And they do have the pleasant side effect of eliciting appreciative exclamations on your part.)

It's not the ASBO, since it occurred after your correction of the title I bestowed upon you. Though it apparently annoyed you. Hmm. Perhaps I should talk to Mycroft about taking care of that. Still, not a causal factor.

Come now, Holmes, what did you expect? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?


End file.
